


A Greg By Any Other Name.

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A very loveable shit, But he gets it even if no-one else does, But not really because everyone is just clueless!, Crack, Drink Spiking, Drugging, Greg is soooo clueless, Greg would be a lovely goldfish, Jealousy, Karaoke, Lots of alcohol, M/M, Sherlock is a shit, Sherlock really is horrible, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: 5 times Mycroft drunkenly tells Greg that he loves him and one time he does it sober.I changed the name of the story from 'Out of the Mouths of Drunk Politicians'..  I hope you don't mind
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 36
Kudos: 170





	1. 81% Pure Love

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sherlock, what is this?”

“What does it look like, John?”

“It looks like there is a distillery in our kitchen.”

“Well done, John.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

“Fine, just have it cleaned up by Friday, please?”

“Why? What’s Friday?”

“Mrs Hudson’s birthday. There will be people and I’d rather our kitchen didn’t look like, well, this.”

“Yes, John.”

“Thank you.”

~ o~

It was getting late and there weren’t many people left at 221B Baker Street. The birthday girl, herself, had retreated a good hour ago, stating it was well past time for her soothers. 

John hadn’t expected too many people to stay past that and, sure enough, within half an hour, only a handful of people remained, including Sherlock Holmes. 

John had been sure Sherlock would have locked himself away in his room once the cake was done with, but instead he had been sitting quietly in his chair, watching his brother, a very well (but not well enough) concealed smirk on his face.

Even more surprisingly was that Mycroft was there and being very chatty indeed. 

“I don’t trust him,” John said to Greg, the two of them sitting on the couch watching the older Holmes brother. Neither had seen Mycroft so, well, social as he chatted to poor Molly, who seemed to be trapped against a wall while Mycroft animatedly told her all about the benefits of cufflinks versus buttons, one hand waving wildly about while the other was clutching a half full glass of soda water. 

“Hmm?” Greg asked, finally turning to John.

“Sherlock. I don’t trust him. He’s up to something.”

At this statement, both men turned to Sherlock who was now standing up and walking into the kitchen. A few moments later he returned and approached his brother.

“Mycroft, I’m sure Molly is adequately bored out of her mind by now. Here, have another drink.”

Mycroft stopped his nattering, looked at Sherlock’s full, proffered glass, looked at his own half empty and then further surprised John and Greg by slamming back the rest of his drink and swapping the empty glass out with the newly filled one. 

Molly used this diversion as a chance to duck away from Mycroft and make her way to the coat hook. 

“It‘s been a lovely evening, but I must be going,” she said nervously, probably praying that she didn’t catch the attention of Mycroft Holmes once again.

John quickly got up to see her down the stairs, but suspiciously eyed Sherlock, who was cheerfully slinking his way back to his chair, on the way.

Once he returned, it was to see that Mycroft was now sitting on the couch next to Greg, practically in his lap, talking about squirrels, of all things. 

Sherlock was grinning ear to ear.

“Alright, what have you done?” John hissed once he was close enough for his flatmate to hear.

Sherlocks grin half dropped away and he threw on his ridiculous puppy dog eyes and looked up at John. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Your brother is pissed. On soda water.”

Sherlocks grin grew again. “Not just Soda Water.”

“Sherlock, please tell me you have not drugged your brother.”

“Of course not. Like you said, he’s drunk.”

“Sherlock, your brother is one of the most observant men in the world. He’d not only taste, but smell any form of alcohol...oh my god. Is this what the distillery was?”

If John hadn’t thought Sherlock’s grin could have gotten any wider, he was wrong. “Vodka, odourless and tasteless. 81% ABV. My own solution.”

“Jesus Christ” John moaned. He didn’t get any further in his reprimand as just then there is a groan and a splatter and another groan. “You’re cleaning that up” John said to Sherlock as he turned around to see a very pitiful looking Mycroft staring forlornly at his ruined shoes while Greg gently rubbed his back. 

“Let’s bring him into the bathroom” John instructed softly.

~~~

Greg had offered to help Mycroft into Sherlock’s bed at John’s instruction, (“ _ No Sherlock, he can not sleep in my bed. You can give up your bed for your brother because you are the one who got him absolutely, fucking blotto.” _ ), while John made sure that Sherlock had cleaned up the puddle of vomit properly. 

Before that they had cleaned Mycroft up as best they could, removed any contaminated items, given him a drink of water and a couple of paracetamol and then John had gone out to yell at his flatmate for giving his brother 12 glasses of half and half drinks. 

Greg was just tucking in the blankets around Mycroft’s torso when the man practically whispered “I love the way you smell.”

Greg couldn’t currently say the same about Mycroft, but generally, he did like the smell of the man and so he told him so, thinking this would be the one time he would ever be able to give Mycroft Holmes a compliment without fear of his  ~~raging obsession~~ ,  ~~little crush~~ , admiration for the man being discovered.

“You smell nice too.”

Greg was just fluffing up the pillow behind Mycroft’s head when the man smiled lazily and hummed out “Hmmm. I love you too.”

At this, Greg stopped what he was doing. No, that wasn’t right. Mycroft didn’t do feelings. “I...You...you’ve had a bit to drink, yeah, no, don’t try to sit up” he fumbled out, gently pushing on Mycroft’s shoulder to get him to lay back down.

The last thing Greg needed was Mycroft Holmes getting closer to him. Not after that confession. Well, it wasn’t really a confession. Just drunken ramblings really. Nothing to get flustered about. 

While Greg was not getting flustered, a cool hand came up and gently patted his cheek. “You are so lovely Gregorly.”

Gently, Greg grabbed the hand and tucked it under the blankets. He needed Mycroft Holmes to go to sleep so he could leave and hopefully never think about this again. It would cause far too much longing in his already pathetic days. “So I’ve been told,” he said hastily, standing up straight. 

“But not by me” Mycroft mumbled sleepily.

A small, yet sad smile pulled at Greg’s lips. ‘ _ And not likely to again _ ’ he thought, but what he said was. “No, not by you. Good night Mycroft.” 

“Good night Greggy,” Mycroft just managed to get out before a small snore puffed out through his lips. 

Greg turned out the lights and left the room, shutting the door behind him. 


	2. Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

~~~~~~~~~~

“To your knowledge, does your brother tend to have any adverse reactions to anaesthesia?”

Sherlock thought back to when Mycroft was twenty-seven years old and had surgery on his left ankle. Once he had woken up, he had confessed everything he had done, as a child, from stealing lemon shortbread biscuits in the middle of the night to being the one who had accidentally set teh garden shed on fire - to their mother and cried at the sheer weight of the guilt of it all. Sherlock had been thrilled to be able to witness the whole lot. 

“No, nothing at all,” he said convincingly enough. 

The nurse made some notes on the form and then looked up at Sherlock with what he assumed was a reassuring smile. “I am sure everything will go smoothly. Appendectomies are routine, despite this one being rather sudden. I am sure there is nothing to worry about.”

“I trust he is in capable hands” Sherlock replied with his own facsimile of a reassuring smile. 

The nurse gave one more smile and then turned and left.

Within five minutes, Sherlock was bored. Had his brother not been at Baker Street when he finally admitted the pain he had in his abdomen for the past 73 hours was actually beyond bearable (Mycroft’s way of saying he was in agony) Sherlock wouldn’t be here at all, so using this logic, he assumed it was okay for him to leave. 

Unfortunately, Anthea had headed back to the office to finalise some things so it would be up to him to collect some toiletries and the like from Mycroft's house. With any luck, he could get John to drop them off to the hospital later on.

Three quarters of an hour later and Sherlock was back at Baker Street composing a piece on his violin. John was nowhere to be seen but Sherlock did think it was great timing that Lestrade had just pulled up. No doubt with the paperwork that Sherlock still hadn’t been in to sign. 

Fifteen minutes later and Lestrade was leaving with one signed statement and a bag to take to Mycroft. Sherlock’s role as a caring brother had been filled. He picked up his violin once more and didn’t think anymore of it.

~o~

"The Love of my life has come to rescue me from this cursed place."

That was what Greg was met with when he walked through the door to Mycroft's private room.

He stood frozen in the door as he observed the man on the bed.

Mycroft looked like shit. He was pale, his hair was a mess and there were bags under his eyes. Not to mention that the white hospital gown did nothing for his naturally milky complexion.

But he did look pleased to see Greg, if the attempt at a smile was anything to go by.

“Sorry, I’m just a delivery boy today” Greg announced, holding up the bag he had been bargained into bringing by Sherlock and dismissing the pang he felt at Mycroft's greeting as indigestion caused by drinking too much coffee.

Mycroft’s sort of smile dropped into a very Sherlock Holmes sort of pout and Greg almost laughed at the sight of it.

“Mycroft,” Greg said, walking fully into the room and placing the bag on the bedside cupboard. “You have just had your appendix removed. I think it is safe to say that you will be here for at least another 24 hours.”

Just then a woman wearing a white coat and stethoscope came bustling into the room.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes, how are you now that you have woken up.”

“Gregolf, the man I love, has come to take me home” Mycroft announced, sounding as superior as his drugged mind would let him and Greg winced at the confession that seemed to appear whenever Mycroft’s sobriety had been compromised.

“Unless _Gregolf_ is a doctor, I doubt that very much,” The doctor answered promptly, looking at Greg as if she did not for one second believe that he had a first aid certificate, let alone a medical degree.

“He is one of London’s finest, I will have you know!” The indignation in Mycroft’s voice was enough to have Greg snorting out a short laugh, despite the embarrassment the conversation was causing him.

“You’re a doctor?” The woman asked, disbelief painting every syllable.

“Coppa” Greg corrected.

“Despector Infective” Mycroft added on the end.

“Is your partner normally this unarticulated?” The Doctor asked, picking up Mycroft’s chart and looking it over.

“Very much the opposite, and I’m not his partner, just a friend dropping off a bag.” 

“YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM, HARRIDAN!” Mycroft yelled, startling both Greg and the Doctor. Greg turned to Mycroft, shocked and also amused at what he was seeing. Mycroft had a crazed look about him. His eyes were wide, his frown was uneven and his cheeks had gone an alarming shade of red.

“It’s a good thing I’m married and love my husband very much then” the doctor replied calmly, making another note on his chart. “Now, do you mind if I take a look at the incision?”

Mycroft sat back with a huff and glared at the doctor and then gave a curt nod.

“Well, I’m going to take that as my cue to leave” Greg said, suddenly feeling very, very uncomfortable. 

The doctor gave a short nod and stepped towards Mycroft who suddenly looked forlorn.

“Farewell, Greggny” he said. 

“Bye Mycroft. Hope you’re feeling better soon.”

Mycroft just nodded and then leaned back against the bedhead and let the doctor do her work. 

Greg quietly let himself out of the room, shutting the door behind him and didn’t think about the way his heart had sped up in his chest when Mycroft had announced that Greg was the man that he loved. 

Nor did Mycroft’s possessive outburst keep him awake that night.


	3. Just Too Good To Be True

~~~~~~~~~~

Archer Morrison was a man of good breeding. His clients were also men (and occasionally women) of good breeding. The club his great grandfather had opened up, decades ago, was not for the common drunk. There was no TV with the latest game, there was no beer on tap, there was no need for _Dress Codes_ to be plastered on the door and there was most definitely no Karaoke. 

But, apparently, when a conference room full of some of the world's scariest political figures ask for a karaoke machine, you manage to source a karaoke machine. 

Now, Archer had wished he had put his foot down, Japanese ambassador be damned. 

~o~

All Greg wanted was to get home and put his feet up with a beer and left over pizza and watch Downton Abbey. 

Instead, he was at a posh club in St James’s, listening to what sounded like a clowder of cats being waxed.

“Good luck, officers” Archer replied once they reached a rather ornate black and chrome door and then scurried away.

Greg looked to Sally, who looked back at him with a nod in the direction of the door. “This is because you pissed off the Super again.”

Greg scowled at her and then opened the door. What was behind it made him stop dead in his tracks. 

Standing on the large table that filled up most of the room was a woman that Lestrade recognised as the French Secretary of State for Defence, a small but important Asian looking man and one Mycroft Holmes. All three of them were clearly off their tits and blaring out what he was sure was supposed to be a Frankie Valli song.

“... _ need you baby, to warm the lonely nights _ …” slurred three drunken voices, all out of time and all of tune. 

Across the table was another person, slumped over, mouth open and drawling and another, sunk down in their chair, looking up at the trio with a look on her face as if she were trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Greg could relate. 

“Alright, that’s enough” Sally called out, pushing her way past Greg, who was still looking up at Mycroft Holmes in absolute and utter disbelief. 

At their announcement, Mycroft and the Asian man turned to them and a cheer came from the two of them. “Grelgory” Mycroft called out. The Asian man then also called out “Grelgory” and the two went back to singing. 

Greg ignored Sally’s look his way as she mouthed “Grelgory?” Instead, he made his way over to the table and held up a hand to the French politician. She graciously (as gracious as you can be when drunk) took his hand and stepped onto the nearest seat before practically falling the rest of the way to the floor. Greg made sure he was there to catch her. Sally offered the same help to the Asian man. This left Mycroft, who was clearly not ready to give up ownership of the microphone just yet. Greg was sorely tempted to get his phone out and start filming it (a bit of harmless blackmail was always handy to have) until Mycorft looked his way and sang “ _ I love yoooou Glegory and if it’s quite alright, I need yooooooou, Gregony…. _ ” 

Greg could not move faster in his quest to pull the plug for the karaoke machine out of the wall, thus also stopping Mycorft’s impromptu ballad. But it was too late. Greg could see the glee in Sally’s eye at having a love song serenaded his way by a very inebriated Holmes.

“Oh, it’s over” came the dejected statement from the middle of the table. Sally snorted and Greg looked up to a very melancholy looking Mycroft. 

“Yeah, mate. ‘S time to go home. Come on, let’s get a cab for you all before the owner decides to press charges.”

“He wouldn’t” Mycroft scoffed, indignant at the thought of having charges pressed against himself. 

At the same time, the person slumped over the table sort of swayed up and shouted “I hhhave a...a car.”

As it turned out, they all had cars and one by one, they were placed into their cars, with strict instructions to the drivers to take them back to wherever they were staying.

Sally and Greg stood on the kerb, watching the last of the five cars drive away. “So, that one was a bit different, wouldn’t you say Grelgory?”

Greg let out a pained sigh. He was never going to live this down. “Oh, not Grelgory”? Sally asked, mock sympathy in her voice. “Would you prefer  _ Glegory  _ or maybe even _ Gregony?” _

“I can put you on desk duty, you know” Greg replied, walking away to his car. He was followed by the sound of Sally’s laughter and he knew that by tomorrow morning, all of his work emails would start off with  _ Dear Grelgory... _


	4. Sweet Like Chocolate, Boy

~~~~~~~~~~

“Tea” Sherlock asked, holding up the pot. 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Mycroft answered, eyeing off the chocolate brownies that were also on the tray.

Martha Hudson had been baking again. Not only were the freshly baked goods a sign that the food had come from a safe source (both his brother and Doctor Watson were useless in the kitchen) but everything on that tray belonged to her. He was actually surprised she left it alone, in Sherlock's possession. That tea set was over eighty years old, not missing a single piece and if sold in auction would be worth over £3 000.

“Help yourself,” Sherlock said, handing over the cup of tea and nodding down to the brownies. The visit from his brother had been utterly unexpected. He had been expecting a 'client' of Mrs Hudsons who was supposed to be trialing her latest brownie recipe. Clearly the client was not coming, so he decided to have fun with his brother instead. “They were freshly baked, not even an hour ago. All natural ingredients.”

Feeling rather good about himself, Mycroft did help himself to a brownie. Surely a small one wouldn’t do any harm.

~o~

Greg had had an absolutely rubbish day, He had been thrown up on, had to break up a fight between two feral women at a supermarket and had to let a murderer walk free because there was not enough evidence to hold him.

What he wouldn’t give for a quiet night, in front of the telly, with a glass of wine and a curry. Preferably one that was delivered to his house because the last thing he wanted to do was bloody cook dinner.

As he walked through the door to his apartment, kicking his shoes off in the doorway, his phone went off. 

If this was fucking work, he was going to ditch the damn thing out the window and take immense pleasure in hearing it shatter as it hit the ground three floors down.

He looked at the screen.  **Message From Sherlock Holmes** .

“For Christ, sake…” Greg mumbled, now wishing it was work as he thumbed open the video file that was attached to the message. God only knew what trouble Sherlock was getting into.

_ The view of the ratty old rug in the living room of 221B Baker Street came into view.  _

_ “God, Locky, you should have heard the man moan on about the  _ currency rate _ of all things. As if  _ that _ is the biggest problem in that god forsaken country. What are you doing?” _

Greg heard Mycroft's voice and knew instantly that something wasn’t right. He knew that it would be a good time to turn the video off and forget it ever existed, but he didn’t. He kept watching.

_ The Camera panned up and Mycroft came into view. He was blinking owlishly in the direction of the camera, but not directly at it, eyes bloodshot and completely unaware that Sherlock was filming him.  _

_ “Nothing much, just answering a text.” _

_ “Is it from your client? Tell them he can have the brownies. They tasted awful. What was Mrs Hudson thinking when she made those?” _

_ “She was thinking of a certain client who is now down a fraction of their brownies because you ate two of of them.” _

_ Mycroft shrugged on screen and slumped back in his chair a dopey smile on his face. _

It was then that Greg realised that Mycroft was stoned. Completely and utterly baked.

_ “It has been a rough week.” _

_ “I’ve told you. Get a gold fish.” _

_ Mycroft attempted to roll his eyes. “Like your one to talk. Where is your goldfish, although he is more like a hedgehog. A spikey, prickly hedgehog” and then the man burst into laughter. _

_ An unimpressed hiff could be heard off camera. _

_ Mycroft's laughter died down and he hummed happily, slumped in the red armchair at Baker Street. _

_ “What about Gavin?” Came Sherlock's voice. _

_ “Hmmm? Who’sat?” _

_ “Gavin, Lestrade. I’m sure he’d make a perfectly acceptable goldfish.” _

_ At this, Mycroft's smile grew. “You mean Gregachu.” _

_ “Do I?” _

_ “Mmm. He would be a very nice gol’fish. I’d love Gregachu as a gol’fish.” And then he fell asleep, a soft snore escaping his lips. _

Greg closed his eyes. He really shouldn’t have watched the clip and he was going to make Sherlock’s life a living hell when he saw him next. 

He opened his eyes when Sherlock started talking again. 

_ “There you have it Geoff, He’d love you as a goldfish. Please, do something with that information!” _

The video ended.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? What the hell was a goldfish. And why the hell did Mycroft, the man of no feelings, have a habit of saying he loved Greg whenever he was drunk? Or apparently stoned?

Greg sighed and went to delete the file, only, he stopped short just as his finger was about to hit the screen. 

He could delete it and forget that the whole thing ever happened. It would be the right thing to do. The sane thing to do. 

Greg closed down messages and told himself he would delete it later. 

He didn’t question why it wasn’t being done straight away and instead, called the local curry house to order his dinner. 


	5. They Drink a Whiskey Drink, They Drink a Vodka Drink

~~~~~~~~~~

“Ah, Doctor Watson. What a surprise to see you out and about.”

“Considering your cameras have been following me for the past three blocks, I’m fairly certain there was no surprise about it.”

“No, I suppose not. Could I offer you a lift?”

John sighed. He may as well get this over with otherwise Mycroft would just keep pestering him. “Sure, why not” he said, and slid into the car, Mycroft Holmes following close behind.

“I see my brother is driving you to the pub again” Mycroft announced as the car pulled away from the kerb and into traffic.

“Not today” John sighed out, suddenly feeling very weary. “I don’t think there is enough whiskey in London to drink away the irritation you brother has caused today.”

“It’s not the quantity, Doctor Watson, It is the quality. You are just not drinking the right stuff.”

“If that stuff exists, I’m sure I couldn’t afford it, Mycroft.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that I have two bottles of it at home, If you would be so inclined to join me.”

John looked to Mycorft, trying to suss out what his motivations were. What he saw was someone who felt as fed up with shit as what he was. 

“Sure, why not” John finally agreed. After all, it had been a really long time since he had had a good whiskey.

~o~

4:23 I can’t find John SH

4:24 What do you want me to do about this?

4:24 Find him, obviously SH

4:27 Why, what have you done to the poor man now?

4:27 Nothing. He overreacted SH

4:35 Fine, I may have ruined some of his property SH

4:36 Again SH

4:37 Where have you tried?

4:38 Everywhere

4:39 Have you called his work?

4:39 Yes, Gavin, I have called his work, and Mike and Harry and everyone else in his insipid little contact list. I have also checked his bank account. He hasn’t used his card SH

4:43 He has probably gone to the pub. Maybe had cash on him.

4:44 No. I had my homeless network check. Something dire has happened to him, I can feel it SH

4:46 Dire? Have you been watching John’s Bond movies again?

4:47 Off topic Detective Inspector SH

4:48 And John’s movie tastes have no influence whatsoever on my choice of vocabulary SH.

4:49 So, that’s a yes then.

4:50 Have you tried calling Mycroft? He has access to all the CCTV cameras.

4:51 The fat pompous arse is apparently too busy to answer my text messages. I tried that before I contacted you, thinking he would be more useful than you. Clearly I was wrong SH

4:52 Ta for that.

4:53 You are welcome. So, are you going to help me? After all, you do owe me SH

4:55 You’re a prick, you know that, right? But yes, I will help you, because I like John. 

4:55 Excellent. I shall see you in no less than 20 minutes SH

~o~

“...An’ then, then he takes off his trows-sers, in front of the  _ wholllle _ store and declared,'I _ ’ma goin’ onna pants shtrike until, until the mint-choc is back! _ ’”

John rolled over, howling with laughter, tears running down his face. Next to him, Mycroft Holmes who was slumped against the side of the chair, was also heaving with laughter. 

As their laughter died down, Mycroft held up the half empty bottle of vodka and waggled it in John's direction. In reply, still huffing out the odd chuckle, John held out his glass for Mycroft to refill. Mycroft topped up his own glass and the two men chinked their crystal together and went to take a drink when they stopped. 

A noise coming from down the hall indicated that someone had entered the building. 

Silently and without moving, both men watched, wide-eyed, as they listened to someone…(someone’s?) moving down the hall towards the room they were in.

Within a few seconds Sherlock and Greg stood in the doorway of Mycroft’s office, staring down at the two drunken men on the floor, looking back up at them with happily docile looks on their faces.

John’s shoes and socks were off and Mycroft had removed his trademark jacket, tie and waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. 

“Hey, there you are,” John crowed, trying to stand, only to fall back on his backside, yet still managing not to spill a drop of vodka. “We thought you would have been here aaaaaaages ago.”

“Why would you assume I was looking for you at all?” Sherlock asked, and Greg could swear the man was glaring daggers at his brother, though, for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. John was clearly here on his own volition. 

“‘Cause, that’s what ya do. You find me. It’s why I love you.” At the announcement both John and Mycroft burst into a fit of hysterical giggles. One look at Sherlock’s face and Greg knew why. The man almost looked comical, with his eyes wider than they should have been and a hyperbolic confused sneer to his top lip. If Greg had been as wasted (he noted one empty whiskey bottle and one almost empty bottle of vodka on the floor) as the two men in front of him, he’d be laughing too. 

“I think it’s time to go home, John” Sherlock stated, finally smoothing his face back to it’s common annoyed look. 

At this, Mycroft let out a despondent sigh. “Yo’lways ruin the fun” he pouted. 

Sherlocks attention then snapped to his brother and he sneered. “Shut up, Mycroft.”

Mycroft then attempted to struggle to a more upright position and Greg could see that an argument was brewing. Arguing with a Holmes was never wise. Arguing with a drunk was pointless. Arguing with a drunk Holmes was going to end up with someone in tears and probably in hospital as well. It was time to step in.

“Alright, Mycroft” he said, stepping over, purposely between the two brothers and helping the man to his feet. “How about we get you into bed.”

At this, a smile very much like Sherlocks ‘ _ It’s Christmas _ ’ smile spread across Mycroft’s face. “Oh yes please” he said and, on wobbly legs, led Greg out of the study and up the staircase. As he was following, Greg heard Sherlock asking John where his shoes were and John responding with something about choc-mint ice cream and Sherlock’s trousers.

Once Mycroft entered his room, he walked to the bed and flopped forward, clearly not intending to go any further. “‘Sso nice here” he murmured. 

Greg rolled his eyes. For a man of such grace, poise and sophistication, Mycroft was a rather ungainly drunk. 

“‘S bout time John told Sh’lock, don’ you think?” he asked, half rolling onto his back, getting stuck on his side. Greg shook his head and pushed Mycroft all the way over and then squatted down to remove his shoes and shocks. 

“I’m not sure if it counts if it is a drunken confession” Greg said, maneuvering Mycroft the right way onto the bed and somehow, without too much fuss, under the quilt. 

He was, once again adjusting the pillows under Mycroft’s head when Mycroft stated “I love you too, Defective Effective Les’rade.”

_ It doesn’t count when it is a drunken confession. _

“I think I prefer Gregorly” Lestrade said, keeping his tone light and straightening up. Myrorft’s response was to fall asleep. 

Taking a deep steadying breath, Greg turned around and then silently made his way out of the room, turning off the light and shutting the door on his way out.  _ It doesn’t count when it is a drunken confession. _

When he went back downstairs, John was asleep, snoring away on the small couch in the office, a knitted blanket draped over him. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

  
  



	6. There Would Be No Better Place

~~~~~~~~~~

Greg cheered as the dart hit the centre of the board. He had just won himself 20 quid. Fucking John Watson was a crack shot and Donovan should never have challenged him, four beers in or not. 

Several others cheered with Greg and a few patted the doctor on the back as he did a victory bow, while others gave Sally a commiserating pat on the shoulder. Greg had just offered to buy the next round when he turned around to see Sherlock, skulking in the shadows, quickly putting his phone away, a disturbing smirk on his lips. 

Greg was just thinking to go over and see what the man was up to, when John and Anderson stumbled over to Sherlock and the look of pleasure at having John nearby and the Horror of having Anderson nearby sent Greg a little thrill of satisfaction and he instead continued to make his way to the bar.

~o~

Mycroft Holmes was not a nervous person. He commanded the room he was in, without even uttering a word. He made grown, hardened men cry. He could have the British Royal Family (and many other Royal Families) on their knees with just a few phone calls. There was not a scenario that Mycroft could not navigate or an opponent he could not argue down. Until now.

Right now, Mycroft Holmes was well and truly out of his depth. He was standing in the middle of the Elephant & Wheelbarrow, a loud and crowded pub in the middle of London and he did not know what he was doing. 

It was a foolish mistake to come here. Sherlock had been taunting him, ever since the brownie incident, about his infatuation with Gregory Lestrade. Just tonight he had sent Mycroft photos of Gregory, drinking and enjoying himself and had then somehow goaded Mycroft to come down to the god forsaken pub in order to, well, he wasn’t sure what. But Mycroft had had his arm twisted and now here he was, way out of his depth and trying to ignore the feel of warm beer seeping into his arm. 

“This is stupid,” he muttered and then was about to turn and leave when a hand on his arm stopped him. Mycroft looked up to tell whoever it was to unhand him immediately but stopped when he found himself looking into the eyes of Gregory Lestrade. 

“Mycroft?” The word wasn’t so much heard, over the loud music and off key singing from a very inebriated Doctor Watson and another unknown man of military bearing, up on the stage, but even if Mycroft wasn’t adept in lip reading, he would know when someone had said his own name.

“Gregory,” he replied, knowing too well that the man wouldn’t be able to hear him, but figured he would understand all the same. 

Gregory leaned in closer and said, directly into his ear, “I can’t really hear you. It got a bit loud in here this past half hour or so.”

Mycroft caught himself just as he was about to lean into the warmth of Gregory and instantly straightened up. Gregory was talking again, but Mycroft couldn’t make out what it was as Greg kept turning his head away and running his hand across his mouth, almost nervously. Mycroft couldn’t for a second fathom why Lestrade would be nervous. 

It was then it occurred to Mycroft that it may not be nervousness that Greg was displaying, but embarrassment. Of course, why wouldn’t he be embarrassed? Greg was often ridiculed for associating with his brother, and here Mycroft was, another Holmes stepping into his social circle. Even worse was that while Sherlock was slightly likeable, Mycroft was not. And here he was, inserting himself into Gregory’s social life, in his life outside of work, with people he enjoyed being around. Mycroft had nothing in common with these people and everyone knew it, including Gregory. 

He watched as Gregory stopped talking and waved to a woman across the bar, before he turned back to Mycroft. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, his lips easy to read, especially as he mimed drinking with his hand. 

Mycroft shook his head. It was bad enough that he had interloped on Gregory’s gathering. He wouldn’t make it any worse by staying. But there was one thing he wanted to do, while he had the chance. 

Mycroft had dreamed, many times, that he had been able to tell Gregory Lestrade how he had felt and in those dreams it had felt sublime. In those dreams, Gregory had not laughed at him, or politely told him he was not interested. He couldn’t remember Gregory’s responses, but he knew they had been kind. What Mycroft wanted to know was what it really felt like to tell Gregory that he loved him. And now, here in this setting where the lights were dim, the music was loud and there were many distractions, that Greg wouldn’t understand what he said, would be the perfect time to do just that. 

“Just one?” Gregory mouthed, holding up a finger. Again, Mycroft shook his head.

“No, I must be going,” Mycroft replied, knowing he wouldn’t be heard and judging by the look on Gregory’s face, he had no idea what Mycroft was saying. This was perfect. “I really just came to see you, “ Mycroft continued, hurriedly, knowing that if he didn’t say it now he would chicken out and lose his only chance. “And since I won’t be able to say it any other time, I just wanted to say, now, that I do actually love you, Gregor…”

Mycroft's mouth snapped shut. Somehow, the music had cut off, half way through that sentence and with it, the crowd had fallen into silence in confusion. 

“Whoops,” came his brother's most insincere voice. Mycroft looked over to the side of the stage where Sherlock was standing with the plug for the sound system in his hand. “My bad.” And with an insufferable grin in Mycroft’s direction, he returned the socket to the wall again and within seconds, the DJ had the music blaring again and the crowd was singing along not long after. 

Mycroft swallowed hard and looked to the floor. Surprisingly, Gregory’s shoes were still not far from his own. Taking a deep breath, Mycroft steeled himself. He brokered deals with ruthless dictators for breakfast. He could face Gregory Lestrade. 

Mycroft straightened his spine, swallowed the excess saliva in his mouth and looked up at Gregory. He opened his mouth to apologise, but was cut off by Gregory tugging on his arm and gesturing towards a door with his head. Mycroft despaired. Now he was going to have to actually talk to Gregory. With an unheard sigh, Mycroft followed Gregory and soon found himself out on a small terrace. Surprisingly, they were alone, despite there being a few tables and chairs scattered around the small area. 

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft started, but was cut off when Gregory turned to face him and, leaning forward, kissed him. 

It was a short kiss. Very chaste. But it sent Mycroft’s heart into overdrive and temporarily shut off his brain. 

“I never thought I’d ever say this, but I think I prefer Gregachu,” Gregory said and Mycroft was convinced then that his brain had broken because Gregory was making no sense whatsoever. 

A small chuckle left Gregs lips and then, leaning closer again, Gregory said, “I love you too, Mycroft,” and just like that, they were kissing again. This time not so chaste. 

It seemed an eternity that they stayed there, in a bubble of their own, just kissing. Gregory’s hands were on his waist and the music was muted by the door between them and the rest of the world. 

It was just them, here, in a small, grimy beer garden and Mycroft Holmes thought that there was honestly no better place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chapter Titles were taken or inspired by songs. Here is the list:
> 
> ** 100% Pure Love - Crystal Waters  
> ** Bad Case of Loving You - Robert Palmer  
> ** I love You Baby - Frankie Valli  
> ** Sweet Like Chocolate, Boy - Shanks & Bigfoot  
> ** Tubthumping - Chumbawamba  
> ** Interlude - London Grammar


End file.
